


Three Days

by zaboraviti



Category: Victoria (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Time Loop, and a bit of deus ex machina-ish, in the usual vicbourne way, it's a kind of magic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-28
Updated: 2021-01-02
Packaged: 2021-03-10 16:49:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,331
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28390428
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zaboraviti/pseuds/zaboraviti
Summary: He never indulged vain hopes and hollow illusions, he saw this day coming a long time ago. And yet, it was such a sweet pleasure to forget the future and the past in the company of his young queen, and it was such a bitter pill to be reminded of the reality: he loves a woman whom he can call by her name only in his dreams and thoughts.But Lord Melbourne has no right to lament his fate, and so he marches on, his step steady and measured, his grip on the sword firm and not at all faltering.He had more than he dared to dream, but it was not enough.
Relationships: William Lamb 2nd Viscount Melbourne/Victoria of the United Kingdom (1819-1901)
Comments: 52
Kudos: 50





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * A translation of [Три дня](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28380858) by [zaboraviti](https://archiveofourown.org/users/zaboraviti/pseuds/zaboraviti). 



> i had to borrow the gentleman with thistle-down hair from Susanna Clarke and tweak him a little, because i couldn't come up with anything else for my timelooping plot. also, Corvidae. you don't need to have read Jonathan Strange and Mr Norrell to understand this fic. i mean it won't hurt (also you _should_ read it, it's a great book. at least watch the TV series, it’s also great and much, much shorter and easier to digest), but all you really need to know for the purpose of this story is that he is a powerful arrogant fairy who can do all kinds of magical stuff, although not necessarily what i made him do. other than that, it's our usual angsty vicbourne.

_**[© Lady Disdain](http://ladydisdainblog.tumblr.com/) ** _

_February 10, 1840_

William Lamb, 2nd Viscount Melbourne, is not in the habit of lamenting his fate. There was a time once when he thought himself its darling, its spoilt child even, and hardships and losses of his life had yet to turn him into an ungrateful griper.

However, at this very moment, he is willing to trade places with a lame beggar in tattered clothes, shivering in the dank February wind—or, foregoing unnecessary and very much uncomfortable dramatics, at least not to be Prime Minister. Had the Bedchamber Crisis been resolved differently, it could be Peel striding right now down the aisle of the Chapel Royal in St James’s Palace. It would be Sir Robert’s arms strained by the weight of the Sword of State. Sir Robert would be carrying it with a fittingly earnest expression of a nervously perspiring face, with only one thought in mind: do not drop it, do not stumble, do not incur the wrath of the crown-bearing bride, she is less than fond of you as it is.

He never indulged vain hopes and hollow illusions, he saw this day coming a long time ago. And yet, it was such a sweet pleasure to forget the future and the past in the company of his young queen, and it was such a bitter pill to be reminded of the reality: he loves a woman whom he can call by her name only in his dreams and thoughts.

But Lord Melbourne has no right to lament his fate, and so he marches on, his step steady and measured, his grip on the sword firm and not at all faltering.

He had more than he dared to dream, but it was not enough.

***

_October 16, 1839_

_I have asked Prince Albert to marry me..._ _and he has accepted._

He returned to South Street at two in the afternoon, citing urgent business. The Queen, with whom, unfortunately or thankfully, he had not had a chance to talk in private, glanced at him anxiously, somewhat guiltily, making his heart, barely put to shame by the admonitions of reason, ache again. Still, she dismissed him, evidently relieved.

It was preposterous of him to feel deceived, he thought, closing the door of his study. Preposterous and foolish—especially if he took the trouble to recall his own self at the age of twenty, and yet… _I feel, I know... that you are the only companion I could ever desire_. His fingers gripped the glass, his eyes watching, mesmerized, the beam of the pale autumn sunlight that had sneaked into the room through the gap between the drawn heavy curtains as it played with the dark golden liquid: now it sparkled, almost merrily, almost festively, now it splashed its grim matte waves, as if to remind him of the unavoidable morning hangover. A splendid metaphor of his life. _It would have been so easy, making her mine. It would have been possible even several days ago—if only I could turn back time, then…_ He said it out loud, startling himself, and winced with self-contempt, and washed away the bile in his throat with another sip of brandy. Not prone to self-pity, he knew no other way to cope with gnawing thoughts. He tried to work, but names, cities, countries and laws mixed and danced in his head, becoming a tangled black mess on white paper. He tried to read and took one book after another from the shelves, seeking, welcoming a distraction, but neither Pindar, nor Saint Augustine, nor Shakespeare helped. Thus, a sip would be followed by a sip, then another, and yet another one, each stinging less than the last, and the butler would appear again to fill the decanter, shaking his head in disapproval. Patiently and steadily, Lord Melbourne sailed through the endless day to his sole goal, which was oblivion.

Morning found him in his favorite chair, in his favorite pose, which left his back and neck painfully twisted. He winked gingerly and, wise through his many years of practice, trying not to make any sudden movements, pulled his body up to sit upright—and frowned in bewilderment. No splitting headache—more than that, his head was unusually light and his mind perfectly clear. The phenomenon was extraordinarily odd, inexplicable and paradoxically dispiriting: Lord Melbourne endured his hangovers with truly Calvinist stoicism, believing them to be a well-deserved punishment—not for the excessive drinking but for the thoughts that led to it. Besides, his attention was needed for the many things to do with the not yet official royal engagement, and he cowardly wished he were not quite so sharply aware of his surroundings, even if a churning stomach had to be the cost.

His bewilderment grew when, having finished his morning toilette and dismissed the valet, he scolded the butler for the lack of fresh newspapers—only to meet the latter’s confounded gaze. _The Times_ indeed still smelled of printer’s ink, only the date was four days late, the same as the latest _Manchester Guardian_. Sending the worried loyal servant about his business, Lord Melbourne sank heavily on the settee and closed his eyes. There could be only one explanation: it must have been a dream, a highly detailed and realistic dream.

He smiled weakly. Of course, it had been a dream of a mind stirred up by the arrival of the German princes. His subconscious, more perceptive and more apprehensive than his conscious mind, was playing tricks on him. It was obvious when he thought of the ball that was to take place this evening. An awkward step back—her cheerfully spinning turquoise gown, another man’s hands on her waist, her heaving bosom, her mesmerized eyes fixed on another man’s face… his heart, pulled inside out. Surely, it had been nothing but a dream. Would she give gardenias from his greenhouses to her cousin, would he give one man’s gift to another? _Those are her flowers,_ the voice of reason said dryly, _to do with them as she pleases. A conditional gift is not a gift but a contract._

Still, even so, even if youth is carefree, careless, selfish and cruel, still, _she knows._ And that sudden trip to Windsor? An even more sudden engagement? She was impulsive and impetuous, his Queen, but she would not make such a life-changing decision so hastily.

He sighed and laughed quietly, placated by the logic of his reasoning. It was time to go to the palace. He would gladly listen to the Queen complaining about her boring cousin, he would jest and try not to think that her resentment was caused by not so secret interest and craving for attention from the contender for her hand and heart, who kept giving her somber looks and hurtful reprimands bordering on insults instead of seductive smiles and saccharine compliments.

By noon, however, his confidence resembled a colossus with feet of clay. He offered paper after paper for the Queen to sign, realizing with growing dismay that he had already seen every single one of those papers, every single gesture and grimace Her Majesty made, heard every single word she said, and recognized his own, which was even more disconcerting. Then again, he told himself, listening to all the familiar words and inflexions of King Leopold’s toast at the dinner table, Saint Augustine wrote of the phenomenon of false memory and Pythagoreans saw it as a proof of transmigration of souls. Lord Melbourne was certain that his own soul had not migrated from anywhere, that it had not existed before him and would cease to exist with him, but the evening was drawing relentlessly near and he was almost willing to accept metempsychosis as his lord and savior.

Preparing to change for the ball, he thoughtfully contemplated the infamous gardenias that had transmigrated in his dream from the Queen’s bosom to Prince Albert’s chest. The temptation not to send the flowers to the palace was strong but succumbing to it meant succumbing to his raving imagination. No, he was not so old and infirm yet to be afraid of his own shadow.

As he listened to Emma’s familiar snide remarks, his blank stare followed the Queen fluttering around the ballroom in Prince Ernst’s arms. His numb lips uttered, “A clockwork prince”, as though against his will, and stretched in a forced smile, when his numb legs carried him to her. Again the strained compliment, again the awkward step back, again another man’s arms spinning her around the room. Again the deadening heart when her trembling fingers unpinned the gardenias from her bodice to hand them to her suitor of choice. Again Prince Albert’s quietly triumphant look addressed to him—there was no doubt about it this time.

He felt as if his spirit had left his body and hovered above, watching the next three days repeat themselves. His body was going through all the right motions, saying all the right words, trying as he had already done once not to betray his embarrassment and disappointment. His body did its calm sardonic cut and thrust routine with the arrogant young prince, inquired after the Queen, when too much time had passed since she and the prince left for a horseback ride, rode in the rocking carriage from Windsor back to London and kneeled unusually early in the morning at Buckingham Palace the following day to hear the news of the royal engagement.

***

_October 16, 1839_

He returned to South Street at two in the afternoon, citing urgent business. The Queen, with whom, thankfully, he had not had a chance to talk in private, glanced at him anxiously, somewhat guiltily but dismissed him, evidently relieved.

He did not even try to find a distraction this time. He drank slowly so as not to recover until morning, but he drank with a purpose, with each sip banishing insane thoughts and thoughts of insanity—only to wake up completely sober and see the same date in his morning _Times_ : October 13, 1839.

Lord Melbourne did not go to the ball, nor did he go to Windsor, saying he was indisposed. He was an ostrich who hides its head in the sand, thinking that what the eye will not see cannot do any harm to the body. However, the urgent summons from the palace early in the morning of October 16 and the Queen’s nervously fumbling hands were a clear indication that nothing had changed.

He did not touch brandy that evening, determined to stay up all night, and very nearly howled when he read the date in the morning newspaper.

 _This is what hell must be like_ , Lord Melbourne thought, peering anxiously into the faces of the people he met on his way to the palace and failing to find a sign of his own dismay and confusion in any of them. Not fiery pits, not devils with pitchforks—if hell did exist, it was tailored to one’s fears and filled with one’s personal demons.

If hell did exist, this would be one of the eternal tortures awaiting him.

His previous rebellion against destiny had failed to influence the events in any way, and he could not risk relieving his feelings either, say, by smacking Prince Albert on the back of the head or insulting the King of the Belgians. No matter how much he would enjoy it, October 13 might not happen again and the last thing he wanted was a challenge to a duel or, even worse, an international scandal. Therefore, Lord Melbourne wisely refrained from empirical research and meekly played his part in the next three days.

***

_October 16, 1839_

He returned to South Street at two in the afternoon, citing urgent business. The Queen, with whom, thankfully, he had not had a chance to talk in private, glanced at him anxiously, somewhat guiltily but dismissed him, evidently relieved.

He changed into a housecoat, stumbled into his study and sank into his chair to jump right back up as if stung by a bee when he heard a quiet mocking giggling. He looked around, puzzled, and found nobody else in the room. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath—the things one’s brain can do to one!—and superstitiously crossed himself, because the giggling grew louder.

“I do not know what powers are mocking me,” he muttered, his hands clutching his head, “and with what purpose, but whoever you are, Our Lord or Satan, I shall not tolerate this any longer! If October 17 does not come this time, there will be a third Viscount Melbourne in England.”

The mysterious voice snorted derisively, and the air in the corner by the window seemed to part, letting out a strange gentleman in a coat the color of leaves in early summer. The gentleman was tall and very handsome, but a chill ran down Melbourne’s spine at the sight of him. The man had pale, perfect skin; his pale, shining hair, immense in amount, resembled thistle-down, and his icy blue eyes glittered under the upward flourishes of long dark eyebrows.

“Oh, stop it, my lord,” the stranger said. “I never knew you to be so dramatic.”

He looked at the shocked owner of the study and added reproachfully, “Where is the usual ease and nonchalance with which you used to receive your visitors?”

Lord Melbourne was about to reasonably comment that it was easy to receive visitors lounging back nursing a sofa cushion and entertain oneself, while they ponderously delivered their boring speeches, by pulling a feather out of the cushion and blowing it about the room, when one’s visitors arrived as befit well-mannered gentlemen, that is, through the door and properly announced. However, the stranger, who obviously was not one of those gentlemen, did not give him the chance to put thoughts into words.

“Just three rounds, my lord, and you are calling out to me again.”

Melbourne carefully untangled his trembling fingers from his ruffled hair and straightened his back, as righteous indignation gave him strength and power of speech back.

“I have not the honor of knowing you, sir, and rest assured that I have not called you. Please be so kind as to explain how and why you have come into this house,” he said, his voice almost even, clearing his throat and reaching for the bell.

“Did you not wish to turn back time?” the stranger threw up his hands. “As for my methods of traveling, they are not for you to comprehend."

Some other man would flee the room in terror or close his eyes, willing the illusion to disappear, or grab the stranger by the neck. The prime minister of the United Kingdom, however, being a practical man, was not predisposed to hysterics and usually trusted his senses: the existence of God or Satan was a matter that needed proof, whereas the gentleman standing before him looked quite real. So did the newspapers on the desk. Of course, there still was one very important question to ask.

“But why?” he croaked, no longer eager to call for help, and shivered, and pulled the collar of his housecoat together.

The gentleman with thistle-down hair rubbed his hands gleefully.

“Because I am valorous, chivalrous, generous and as handsome as the day is long! There was a time when I bestowed my grace upon men of extraordinary merits but gratitude did not prove to be among those merits. Thus, I decided to be less particular. And less generous. But you, my dear viscount, not one time out of three have you availed yourself of the offered opportunity! Not very chivalrous of you, I must say, and now I have a good mind to punish you for it! I could make it so that you will live through these four days over and over again, endlessly, until you go insane. How amusing that would be! What fun!”

“I say—” Melbourne stopped himself short as the stranger, who had been pacing the room excitedly, suddenly paused and waved his hand.

“Yes, yes, you may be right, of course,” he muttered thoughtfully, “perhaps, I should have made sure it was indeed your wish… So be it: I am willing to forgive you. To offer you another gift even! Imagine that instead of four not most pleasant days, I can send you back to live any other four days from your life again—and let you repeat them as many times as you please!” The stranger flashed him an eerie, dangerous grin as he saw Melbourne frown. “If you are thinking to insult me with rejection, think again, my lord. I can make the choice for you!”

Pale and queasy, Melbourne opened his mouth, about to protest. Then again, what did he have to lose? If it was only happening in his delirious imagination, if his mind was failing him at last, choosing hell over heaven would be even a greater folly. Hell was something he knew all too well, but what was heaven?

He once thought that his and Caro’s marital bed was heaven, as he studied with a young lover’s admiring eyes the delicate features of the darling face in the rosy light of dawn. No, too much time had passed, and he could not become that wide-eyed Willy—and being with Caro again seemed like a betrayal of two women now.

Heaven was the days when Augustus did not have his fits. When he did not have to hold tight the small warm trembling body, listening to the fierce pounding of a small heart that thrashed like a tiny frightened bird… It was heaven to listen with a smile to the boy’s ramblings, earnest beyond his years, to stroke his mussed hair, to hold his hand until he fell asleep… His son’s face came alive in his mind’s eye, waking up the never closing wound. No, it was one thing to apprehend, to fathom the fate of one’s child, and quite another to know it for a fact. His boy is gone and should rest in peace he had not known in life.

His memory told him that heaven was his childhood, carefree, brimming with summer and happiness. What could be better fun than acting with George, arguing with Frederic, racing with Peniston, playing with that little devil Emily, laying his head on his mother’s lap… But a grown man in a child’s body? It felt wrong and unnatural.

There was something else sparkling, shimmering in a deep, cherished corner of his heart: the four sunlit days Her Majesty had spent at Brocket Hall, accompanied by her ladies and her mother. It had been such a short while ago, but everything had changed so quickly that September now seemed a distant past. That semi-official royal visit took place soon after the Duchess of Richmond’s costume ball and his oblique confession, his way to make it up to her for her broken heart. The Queen insisted that she had to see Brocket Hall through different eyes, not the eyes of a woman spurned. They walked and rode the grounds of Brocket splashed with shades of red and yellow, and they played chess, he posed as she sketched, and he told her about his ancestors whose portraits hung on the walls of the big house… The presence of the Queen’s ladies and Duchess of Kent bothered them little or not at all. In fact, he thought with relief that Emma and Harriet, and especially the duchess’s sour face as she watched her daughter like a hawk, helped him to keep the presence of mind, saving them both from foolish things he might have done otherwise… Sweet innuendos and half-words and allusions, an accidental touch, a hitching breath when he stood too close, showing her how to pot a plant—those memories would last him long enough, to his dying days.

As though reading his mind, the gentleman with thistle-down hair roared with laughter.

“Yes, yes, any four days! Even those you are recalling at this very moment! With no consequences! Whatever happens in those four days I shall gift you, when you decide to return to the present, you will wake up on the morning of October 17 this year and find that the rest of the world remembers them exactly as it remembers them now—nothing will change for anyone.”

Oh, he was tempted. He was tempted because right now, at this very moment, Lord Melbourne realized that those four days had gone by too quickly, and had he not endured enough, had he not suffered enough, did he not deserve a reprieve? _No,_ whispered the voice of reason. No, he agreed. But, be it reality or insanity, what was the harm?

“None whatsoever!” the gentleman exclaimed. “Her majesty will marry her prince on the appointed date. Not the best choice, by the way, awful weather in the morning, terrible rain storm. Think it over, my lord, think and say yes. They have so much to look forward to, but what do _you_? I know. Do you want to know?”

“I most certainly do not,” Melbourne hurried to say. His future was the last thing he would want to know. He had a rough idea of what awaited him, which only made the taste in his mouth more bitter. “However…” he added after a short hesitation, “no one receives anything in this life for free. I do not believe in your lack of interest, if for no other reason than because I do not know who or what you are. What is your reason? And what is your price?”

The stranger guffawed.

“You are right, of course, you are! I have no interest in your future or your heart, my dear Lord Melbourne. I do have my reasons. And a price—but it is not for _you_ to pay. I can tell you more about it afterwards, if you still want to know. You have thought long enough. What is your decision?”

Perhaps, every skeptic and cynic has days or at least moments when the weight skepticism and cynicism is too heavy, pulling one down to the bottom, much like a millstone around one’s neck, and they are quite willing to be fooled and tempted by the most improbable and unthinkable.

“In September—” Melbourne began falteringly.

“I know!” the strange gentleman clapped his hands cheerfully. “You will go to sleep this evening to wake up in your bedchamber at Brocket Hall on the morning of September 20. And September 23 will be followed by September 20 again, and—”

“No,” Melbourne interrupted. “Once will be enough.”

He would not be greedy. All he wanted was to drown in her adoring gaze one more time—he did not need more.

The stranger shrugged.

“Let us be genuine with one another, my lord. Nothing is ever enough for human beings.”

“Only once,” he repeated firmly.

The gentleman giggled.

“As you wish. When you decide to break the cycle…” he squinted, thought a little, his hand diving quickly into the jelly-like air next to him, and held out a small round object that glittered in the morning sunlight, “give this to her majesty. Once she touches it, it will be over, so be careful.”

Melbourne gingerly took the object, which turned out to be a silver button. There was nothing unusual about it—save for the finely etched image of a bird on the polished surface.

“As simple as that?”

“As simple as that. Well, my lord, now—”

“Not four days,” he blurted out, surprising himself. “Three. Three days.”

On the evening of September 23, the Queen left to return to London. He stood by the front porch for a long while, with his hands clasped behind his back. Looking away from the road, on which the dust stirred up by the carriage had long settled, turning around and going back into the house was even harder than saying goodbye.

The stranger tilted his head to the side, the gaze of cold blue eyes mocking him.

“Three days. Until we meet again, Lord Melbourne.”

The air parted again to swallow the stranger, whose name Melbourne had not thought to ask.

One thing was certain: wherever and whenever he found himself in the morning, today his butler would have to refill the crystal decanter more than once.


	2. Chapter 2

_September 20, 1839_

Morning unceremoniously poked him in the closed eyes with a bright beam of sunlight and spoke in a careful dignified voice.

“My lord.”

Melbourne sniffed, catching the familiar invigorating aroma—the servants knew the most effective ways to wake their master with least consequences—and pried his reluctant eyelids open. Hedges bowed his head humbly, holding out the tray with a steaming cup of coffee.

“Hedges, old chap,” Melbourne muttered, “what on earth are you doing here?”

The Brocket Hall butler sighed disapprovingly, casting a quick meaningful glance at the half-empty decanter on the bedside table.

“My lord, your order was to rouse you before nine, so that you would get ready for Her Majesty’s arrival.”

The memory of the last night’s delirious dream came back, violent and unstoppable like an avalanche, his fingers flinching, unclenching, the porcelain cup falling to the floor, rolling across the rug. He sat on the bed, his blank stare fixed on the brown stain spreading across the silvery silk, oblivious to the pain from the burn and Hedges’s worried voice.

He nearly lost his footing when he offered a hand to the Queen, helping her out of the carriage, stunned by the magnificent glowing light in her eyes. He was not himself until Duchess of Kent said tartly at dinner, “It seems you have chosen an inopportune moment for this visit, Drina. Lord Melbourne looks unwell.” Her majesty winced, as she did whenever she heard the hateful childhood name, and glanced at him, worry widening her eyes. He hastened to smile, apologize and reassure his guests that he was in good health and nothing would stop him from being the most gracious host.

As they strolled in the garden before supper, he was telling the Queen about Captain Cook’s adventures and discoveries, the object of his keen interest as a young boy. He nearly slipped by saying that Captain Ross’s Antarctic expedition had already set out, and froze for a split second but quickly corrected himself. He did not need to worry: the Queen, whose range of interests did not seem to include geographic discoveries, had failed no notice his mistake. She simply said in her usual artless manner, “It is a pity that we were not the first to set foot on the Antarctic soil… But then, what use would such a colony be to us?” He was about to express in half-jest his admiration for Her Majesty’s practical mindset, when she sighed, “But why do Captain Ross’s ships have such dreadful names[1], Lord M? Would it not be better to bring some warmth to the land of eternal winter?”. His love, still drowsy after the rich dinner, awoke with a start and flooded his heart and his eyes. She naturally combined ignorance, pragmatism and ruthlessness with extraordinary intuition, sincerity and kindness… He had been disarmed by her merits once and for all, and her shortcomings, of which he was perfectly aware, could not break this spell.

He spent a sleepless night in the library, as he had done then, the mysterious gentleman occupying more of his thoughts than the Queen this time.

_September 21, 1839_

Were he a nobler man, a more selfless man, he would have allowed those blessed September days to pass in the same exact way. Had he not told himself that he did not need more?

However, different doesn’t mean more. He would not play games with her, he would not pretend. Besides, his little queen who wears her big heart on her sleeve was too guileless. Still, there was still so much he wanted to tell her, so much he wanted to share with her. If not his bed, if not the rest of his life, then at least some joys and some sorrows he had known… And if that made her eyes looking at him shine a little brighter, he certainly would not complain.

_September 22, 1839_

_“O cell of sweet adventure, where my dear_   
_And lovely enemy doth me constrain,_   
_And this for love and pity it is clear,_   
_And neither for hard anger nor disdain!_   
_All other captives are immersed in gloom_   
_When turned the key in lock, but I am glad,_   
_Joy not despair for me, life not the tomb,_   
_Not awful judgement given, not verdict sad;_   
_But kindly, welcoming, ardent embrace… **[2]**”_

he quoted, not looking at his companion, lest her rosy cheeks should become even more flushed.

They were resting in the small drawing room after a long horseback ride. The duchess, who had met them on the front porch, barely refrained from a deafening torrent of German speech, only hissing at her daughter, undoubtedly accusing her of outrageous immorality. But was she or Lord M to blame for her ladies’ lack of riding experience that had made them fall so far behind? The Queen innocently—for that, sadly, was what she was—bat her eyelashes at the furious duchess and resolutely broke free of her iron grip to go up to her rooms and freshen up.

“Did you write this, Lord M?” she sighed, having collected herself at last, her shining eyes glued to his.

“You are flattering me, ma’am,” he smiled. “These lines belong to the pen of the incomparable Ariosto, the author of _Orlando Furioso_ , a work you surely know.”

“Surely,” she drawled uncertainly, making him smile again. No other person could make him smile so easily and so often, and for such a variety of reasons. “But why have you stopped, Lord M? Please, don’t stop, I want more!”

Melbourne, whose imagination painted him a completely different scene when he heard these words, swallowed hard and willed himself to look down, furtively licking his suddenly parched lips. “ _Where often in the hottest noon of day/ The pair had rested, locked in fond embrace, **[3]**_ ” his memory prompted inappropriately. He shook his head, trying to settle the agitated humming inside.

“They often chided Ariosto,” he rasped, “for his lyrical digressions and quite liberal treatment of plotlines in his _Orlando_. ‘ _What are you doing, Don Ludovico, why are you playing at again?’_ they would say. _‘You left poor Angelica in mortal danger at the end of Canto VIII, but you are on Canto X now and we have yet to hear of her fate!’”_

She laughed at his attempt to imitate Italian inflexions.

“To them, the poet would respond that his purpose in doing that was to undermine man’s foolish but persistent desire for continuity and completion. If you ask me, an old cynic, I believe that Ariosto’s _cantus interruptus_ served no other purpose than holding the readers’ interest. Still, there is some sense to these words. Let us enjoy the beautiful lines—it matters not what follows them or how it all…” he looked up at the Queen, who sat very quiet, “ends.”

_Within the grotto, and without it, they_   
_Had oftener than in any other place_   
_With charcoal or with chalk their names pourtrayed,_   
_Or flourished with the knife's indenting blade._

He smiled again, this time without an effort. It would not do to waste the remaining hours mourning something that could not be changed. Another man’s name may be next to hers in the history books, another man’s offspring may branch out from her family tree, but here, in time’s secret pocket, she belonged to him alone, and this memory was forever burned into his heart.

It was almost time for supper, otherwise he would have told her about borrowing a translation of Ariosto from an unusually well-educated footmen in his family home, about the life and work of the great Italian. He would have explained why he took the three-hundred-year-old stanzas, devoid of moralization, deeply humanistic, filled with love and irony, so close to heart. Well, it was for the better. He might have also told her of Alessandra (and winked playfully), the poet’s mistress, another man’s wife whom Ariosto never dared to name in his poems even after he married her: from secret lovers to secret spouses…

As his guests were about to retire, Lord Melbourne listened to the Queen’s spluttering expressions of gratitude for his hospitality.

“It is an honor to have you here, Your Majesty,” he said, bowing his head courteously. “Brocket Hall is always at your service. Ma’am…” he added quickly, before she turned to go. His face was suddenly earnest as his hand reached into the pocket of his coat.

“Lord M,” she nodded as earnestly, echoing him—and giggled, as if finding it impossible to believe they could be discussing any serious business, not at this moment, not within these walls.

What was there for him to do but ignore the dangerously squinting gaze of Duchess of Kent who waited impatiently for their conversation to end and wrap her daughter in a gentlest, softest smile of aching tenderness for her and contempt for himself?

“Good night, ma’am.”

“Good night, Lord M,” she breathed out, noticing only the tenderness and responding with those sweet dimples in her cheeks. “And don’t you dare forget your promise to recite your own poetry tomorrow.”

Lord Melbourne watched the young queen as she sprinted down the hallway far ahead of her mother, with a very unqueenly bounce in her step. How many times had he watched her leave him? How many more times would he watch her leave him again?

_“In Arabic was writ the blessing said,_   
_Known to Orlando like the Latin tongue,_   
_Who, versed in many languages, best read_   
_Was in this speech; which oftentimes from wrong,_   
_And injury, and shame, had saved his head,_   
_What time he roved the Saracens among._   
_But let him boast not of its former boot,_   
_O'erbalanced by the present bitter fruit,_

he murmured, shaking his head, dejected. His fingers in the pocket clutched the silver button with a silhouette of a bird etched finely on the polished surface, which he had not had the heart to take out.

***

 _September_ _20_ _,_ _1839_

“Tell me the truth, Lord M!” the Queen cried out, knitting her brows. “You have deceived me, have you not?!”

The frightened note under the dropped key broke off with an ugly clang. Feeling his blood turn to ice and his heart convulse in agony somewhere in the pit of his stomach, he slowly met her gaze. His thoughts swarmed and multiplied, interrupting each other, offering themselves as possible justification—but there was no justification for what he had done. How could there be? He choked on the suddenly stifling air, he opened his mouth and closed it and opened it again, like a fish out of water.

“You are doing too well. Admit that you practice every day!” a courageous finger poked the lapel of his coat.

How could he respond to her just suspicion? The truth was that he had not touched the pianoforte since the door was slammed shut behind his harassed music teacher. Yet he did practice almost every day for… he had promised himself not to count how long. He remembered too well the duet the Queen and Prince Albert had played—or would play?. He remembered watching their as yet only musical union with a dull pain gnawing at his heart. He remembered catching Prince Ernst’s quick curious glance and drinking his brandy in one draught. He was too temped to play with her a duet of their own.

_September_ _21_ _,_ _1839_

“Oh, Lord M, no, not like this,” she trills with laughter. “You are so clumsy!”

With an effort, her fingers cover his much bigger hand that nearly drops the pencil and draw their now shared line, diligently, studiously, and close the shape.

He thinks that he can see the model, a fleshy ripe red apple, giving him a meaningful, mocking stare.

As meaningful as the careful throat-clearing of Lady Portman who belatedly looks up from her needlework.

_September 20, 1839_

He did have a nobler aim. As a sensible grown man, a politician concerned about the future of his people, he thought of the state and duty. He wanted to pass on all his knowledge of government to her, to teach her all he had not had the time to teach her. He set about his task with unprecedented enthusiasm, forgetting one simple but unsurmountable issue: each September 20, 1839 was the first September 20, 1839 in the Queen’s mind.

“But I have already told you—” he paused, realizing his mistake.

“Have you? I am so sorry, Lord M. Perhaps, mamá is right and I have no aptitude for studies…”

The blue eyes were brimming with tears, and he loathed himself for it. Was it for this that the wheel of time kept turning backwards every three days over and over again—for him to make her cry? _To_ _me_ _,_ _ma_ _’_ _am_ _,_ _you_ _are_ _every_ _inch_ _a_ _queen_ _._ No, never again must he make her feel inadequate, undignified or unworthy, or his own words were not worth a tuppence. He must not shape her in his image and likeness. His queen was following her own path to greatness.

_September_ _21, 1839_

Stunned, she watches his hand hovering over the sketch album. Never, never before has Lord Melbourne shown a slightest inclination to dabble in fine arts.

He does not even have to look at her, as he has been seeing her every day for many… months, perhaps?—he is not counting, and every minutest detail of the darling face is burnt into the inside of his eyelids. The portrait, a simple pencil drawing, comes alive on the paper, the arched eyebrows mirroring the astonished original.

***

He is trying his best not to ponder on the nature of the Phenomenon, reluctant to disturb his rational mind.

He still will not count the days—or rather, he loses track of time now that he is always by her side. But sometimes, rummaging for something in the desk drawer in his study, he finds the silver button with a bird silhouette on it and hears the mocking cold voice in his head. _Let us be genuine with one another, my lord. Nothing is ever enough for human beings._

Human nature.

For the first time in his life, he curses his apparently too good health. How arrogant it was of him to believe that the mind would triumph over the body and compel it to settle chastely for her company and nothing more. Without realizing it, he keeps finding excuses to touch her, and she, pink with embarrassed delight, seems to cling to him, too.

He would find a good angry cat-o’-nine-tails, he thinks, turning the riding crop over in his hands after another horseback ride, if it were not for his pleasure-loving nature that preferred indulging the flesh to mortifying it in any way.

***

 _September_ _22, 1839_

In the heat of the galloping ride, they left the cautious ladies-in-waiting far behind again and only realized it when they were already on the bridge. Melbourne reined in his stallion and turned, the sharp of his hand pressed against his brow, looking out in vain for the stragglers.

“We should give the horses some rest, ma’am,” he said, dismounting in his usual reckless, albeit admittedly spectacular manner: by throwing his right leg over his horse’s neck and jumping on the stone spine of the bridge. Her majesty nodded. She was about to slide down from her sidesaddle when, without a moment’s hesitation, he easily swooped her by the waist and put her down in front of him. His fingers lingered, succumbing to the temptation for a moment longer than was appropriate. He dropped his hands. He looked away. He took a step back. When he ventured to look up again a few seconds later, the Queen stood facing the main house, twisting thoughtfully the reins around her wrist, looking for all the world as though unperturbed if it was not for the pale crimson splotches on her cheekbones.

“One gets the full view of this bridge from the house,” she said slowly. “I swear I can almost see mamá standing by the window on the top floor, viewing the grounds, trying to spot us,” she sighed.

“Through her opera glass,” Melbourne chimed in. The Queen suddenly squatted, hiding behind the balustrade from Duchess of Kent’s all-seeing eye, and giggled, and he burst into laughter, too, infected by her cheeriness, amused by this childishness.

“Small stature does have its benefits, whereas you are too tall and conspicuous, Lord M,” she tugged at his trouser leg cheekily, too excited to remember to blush, “come down here!”

Unable to defy his monarch’s command, he sat down right on the stonework, not caring to keep his clothes clean, his shoulder brushing the side of her thigh momentarily. Lord Melbourne was not an easily excitable adolescent for the heat of a girl’s body to make him lose his head… But she jerked her head for some reason, and a stray strand of hair fell from under her bonnet, fluttering in the breeze—and he felt time slow down, turning from a rapid mountain stream into crawling treacle, and he watched, he watched, mesmerized, as the slender small fingers searching for the irritant traced languidly the curve of the collarbone, creep to the neck, to the nervously gulping throat… And his own hand, challenging his will, reached out to help—and caught the mischievous thing, grasped it, pressing against the cheek, seemingly unintentionally caressing the glowing satin-smooth skin—and he suddenly found the fathomless blue depths so close that breathing became unimportant, and he would have perished, lost in those depths forever, if time, this seasoned, sharp-eyed chaperon, had not intervened by resuming its usual pace.

Still somewhat shell-shocked, dazed, he mentally thanked his stallion, who had greeted the approaching horses so loudly.

Lord Melbourne helped Her Majesty up and walked several steps forward, to put a safe distance between them, his hands clasped sensibly behind his back. Lady Portman and Lady Sutherland had finally caught up with them.

“Lord M,” he heard the trembling murmur of her voice. “I do not think I have ever been happier than in these three days.”

He clenched his jaws and did not turn, pretending to have heard nothing for the roaring water beneath and the patter of hooves ahead.

_Enough._

In the evening, before the supper, mad with worry and shameful joy, Lord Melbourne turned his study upside down in the search of the silver button with a finely etched image of a bird on the polished surface, which he distinctly remembered putting in the drawer of his desk, right between the enameled box and the stack of letters tied with a ribbon.

[1] HMS Terror and Erebus: literally, "terror" and "darkness"

[2] Ludovico Ariosto, Sonnet II, tr. by Lorna de’ Lucchi

[3] (and further in this chapter) Ariosto, _Orlando Furioso_ , tr. by William Stewart Rose


	3. Chapter 3

_September 22, 1839_

_…And ever saw the thing more clear and plain;_   
_And all the while, within his troubled breast,_   
_He felt an icy hand his heart-core strain._   
_With mind and eyes close fastened on the block,  
At length he stood, not differing from the rock._ _**[1]** _

Her majesty finds him in the greenhouse. She gives her chaperons a slip and, driven perhaps by intuition, comes to his little cozy glass world of light, warmth and bright colors that gives him refuge from woes and vane struggles of the world.

Her majesty finds him in the greenhouse on the evening of the fifth September 22 in a row, because for the fifth September 20 and 21 and a good half of September 22 in a row, Lord Melbourne has been valiantly guarding his spirit and flesh from temptation. He keeps a respectful distance between his unreliable self and the Queen of his country and heart—a genial host, an obedient servant and a firm minister, but not at all her dearest Lord M.

Lord Melbourne could have found refuge in any other place of his enormous estate as early as on the second (that is, relatively speaking—who knows which September 22 it really was... thinking so casually of the thread of time that has bound him hand and foot must be an indication of irreversible corruption of the brain, but he is beyond caring) evening of September 22. However, while valiantly saving himself from temptation, he is also cowardly saving himself from bitter disappointment. For what if not disappointment would he feel if she did not come for him, say, to the hunting lodge? And so, on the evening of every September 22, he raises his head when he hears the rustling of quick footsteps on the gravel, and he sees, with overwhelming tenderness flooding his heart, a happy smile blossoming on her lips—the most beautiful, the most precious flower he has ever seen. And flowers are there for Lord Melbourne to nurture, so for fear of crushing this one with a careless gesture or word, he becomes her Lord M again. This game of cat and mouse he keeps playing with himself gives him pain and bliss in equal measure.

But on the evening of the fifth September 22, he starts when her exasperate voice reaches his ears sooner than her footfalls.

“Lord M!” She stands in front of him, her fists clenched, her eyes blazing. A beautiful little fury! “We have only two days left now! How can you waste them so?” the last words shudder and shatter and scatter in a strangled whisper.

He flinches as though he has been slapped. Only now it occurs to him that everything is upside down in this world. In the real one, she has her entire life ahead of her and does not need to count every minute, whereas he treasures every moment he spends by her side. But here he can afford squandering time and she keeps desperately looking at the clock. The alarming ringing that grows louder in his ears with every step she takes towards him suddenly stops.

“I am sorry, ma’am,” he whispers, not quite trusting his voice. “Forgive this old fool. I am so sorry I—”

And she is there before he finishes the sentence, her heart pressed against his heart, her body hitting his with a force of a small gale, knocking air out of his lungs—and he has no other choice but to draw from another source. It feels so easy— _he_ feels so light that he could soar up higher and higher until the precious delicate flowers are showered with shattered glass of the roof—what ever was he so afraid of? Of these pliant lips opening under his, of this brilliant happiness shining from her eyes and getting under his skin, coursing through his veins?

Who did he think he was—who is he to reject life itself?

A loud gasp assaults his ears, pulling him back, down to earth, as he becomes aware that this harmony-breaking sound belongs to a third person. Emma Portman hurries to turn her face away, allowing them to tidy themselves, as a kind-hearted policeman might let a street urchin run away from the scene of the crime with a stolen loaf of bread. Of course, he appreciates his old friend’s concern and support and the explanation (or an excuse) is almost out of his mouth when he remembers that there is no need and gives her a barely noticeable nod.

Tomorrow is yet another September 20, and only his memory will retain these moments. The thought both scorches and chills him but even the realization of his nefarious audacity cannot force him to turn back now.

And when the night comes, when Brocket Hall falls into deep slumber, the door to the Queen’s bedchamber, illuminated by a single candle, will open quietly, letting Lord Melbourne in.

Her hand will rise and reach for him, and he will drop to both knees this time, he will kneel by her bed, dressed in nothing but a nightshirt under his housecoat, and he will kiss her hand and he will look into her shimmering eyes. It may be sorcery that makes this night possible but it is a much more ancient and powerful magic that demands he give her all of himself and anything else she wishes.

“Ma’am.”

She will shake her head, bristling but silent: no, no, no, wrong word, not that, not now, and he will understand.

“ _Victoria…_ ”

The word will flutter from his lips in a barely audible whisper—this is how an autumn leaf breaks from its branch on a windless day, too weak to stay on it, for it is its time to go. But even an insubstantial, almost weightless thing such as this can disturb the harmony of nature if it falls where it does not belong. The word will fall from his lips and he will squeeze his eyes shut, expecting thunder and lightning to strike from the opened windows of heaven.

“William.”

The yellow leaf will dance in the air, followed by another leaf, then another one, and another one, and heaven will still be silent, as if it cares not about the fall.

***

Having tasted the forbidden fruit once, there is no going back to innocence, no walking carelessly under the canopy of heaven without the cover of a fig leaf, no pretending that the tongue does not yearn for the heady bittersweet juice. And the hand reaches again—as long as there are fruits in abundance on the tree, as long as God is not looking, until the angel with a flaming sword comes to close the gate to the Garden of Eden forever. The hissing in the foliage is an amused, contented sound.

Not every third night at Brocket Hall brings him into her arms, not every third night finds him willing to give her that brief pain, which he compensates a hundredfold, caressing the eager curves and folds of her body. Her gasping lips plead, breathing out his name, her skin glowing in the moonlight burns under his fingers, her hands, tentative at first but surer by the minute, carve jet black, sinful, beautiful wings on his shoulder blades, and he is flying, he is soaring, he is falling, falling, falling down, into her, he is drowning in her, convulsing in a sweet agony.

_Let us be genuine with one another, my lord. Nothing is ever enough for human beings._

He is not counting the days that have long merged together, becoming years. He cannot remember now when he began coming to her bedchamber on the second and then on the first night—perhaps when he noticed that she was not apprehensive, not showing that understandable fear of an innocent girl, not hiding her face, not covering her small breasts and the mound between her legs, her petite form standing proudly in front of him, bravely meeting his suddenly drunken gaze, her chin jerked up in an almost belligerent manner, and his heart, heeding the frantic pounding of her heart, skips a beat, lost in awe, pushing him down to his knees again.

On the first and the second nights he always leaves before dawn, but he always stays on the third night and falls asleep with his naked beautiful love in his arms.

Freely, without a hint of embarrassment, she studies his body on the very first night, and soon, it seems, she knows all its— _his_ —secrets. An honest, noble, wise man she thinks him to be would perhaps question and wonder how it is even possible. But he keeps taking the gifts fate keeps giving him. She is the fire, she is Nature itself, there is nothing to question, nothing to doubt, whether it is the ancient instinct that drives her or her love that may be stronger than he used to think.

Be it as it may, he is too weak to resist this new beautiful stolen life, in which days are for them to bask in their carefree quiet happiness and nights are for them to revel in the heat of their passion.

***

_Fortune, why take Love’s gifts that made me blest,_   
_The gold and the pale ivory why dispute,_   
_The purple and the pearls and the proud rest_   
_That made me happy and of large repute?_   
_Through thee it is I tread a distant floor,_   
_Poor I must die nor benefit by these;_   
_Less guarded is upon the Moorish shore_   
_The golden fruit of the Hesperides._

“My love,” he says, and he wonders that endless time still have not erased the color and taste of these words, that they still explode on his tongue with thousands of tiny slivers of happiness, imbuing his body with the vigor it did not know even in its prime at the age of thirty.

“Victoria,” he tries a different spell, summoning his pagan goddess, the petite figure wrapped in a toga of white satin sitting cross-legged on the rug, surrounded by crumpled sheets of paper. He makes a move to get up.

But the goddess raises her arm in a commanding gesture.

“Only one more minute!” She continues to make quick pencil strokes in the album, occasionally wild movements of her arm nearly blowing out the candles in the candelabrum. “This chiaroscuro on your cheekbone is most marvelous, I simply must—”

“Victoria.”

“A little patience, please, William, dearest,” she chirps—the intimate form of address comes so easy and natural to her, as if they have been calling each other in this fashion for many years, like an old married couple, as if tomorrow will not be the first time the royal carriage stops by the front porch of Brocket Hall, “the dawn is far away still. And don’t you dare roll your eyes!”

He snorts indignantly and looks around. She took some books from his library again: he notices _A Midsummer Night’s Dream, The Metamorphoses…_ and lying over there is _Orlando Furioso—_ he smiles as he recalls reciting Ariosto’s poetry: how long ago it was, perhaps a hundred thousand September 22nds have passed since…

He finds her company increasingly fascinating. She keeps surprising him with extraordinary reactions to most ordinary things and with oddly mature, rational reasoning. When he expressed his amazement with her earnestness, she could suddenly start behaving like a child—sticking out her tongue at her mother or stomping her foot in resentment. When he foolishly said something in a fatherly condescending tone, she could give him a cold glare and a response so biting and scathing but also so shockingly sophisticated and courtly that it would put to shame any lady of high society well-versed in the subtle art of insulting innuendos.

The books that he saw on the floor of her bedchamber every night sometimes varied, the volume of Ariosto being the only almost regular guest in this room. He would shrug, knowing from experience that nothing could repeat itself precisely, and yet…

“Victoria,” he calls again, suddenly startled, suddenly frightened, and his fear tinges his voice, tightening his throat, making her look up from the floor. Worry flashes in her wide darkened eyes and she flies into his arms, the drawing forgotten, to cup his face with her small hands and shower it with kisses that soothe and inflame him at the same time.

“Look what I have found,” she mutters later, yawning, her hand reaching for something on the floor. “A most curious button, I do not remember you having anything like this. Look, William,” she smiles a sleepy smile, “it’s a rook, is it not?”

_No._

“No,” he wheezes with a sinking heart, his arms wrapping themselves tighter around her waist, and closes his eyes helplessly, not wishing to see the damn silver button with a finely etched silhouette of a bird on the polished surface. “It’s a raven.”

There is a bitter taste in his mouth, a bitter pain in his heart, bitterness burning out his insides.

No.

He is not ready.

 _One only stood that bounteous treasure by,_  
 _There are a thousand guardians of this gold_  
 _Which Love once deemed me worthy of; I cry_  
 _Blame on the giver! What authority_  
 _Hath such a one if powerless to hold_  
 _In his own kingdom what he gave to me?_ _**[2]** _

[1] Ariosto, _Orlando Furioso_ , tr. by William Stewart Rose

[2] Ariosto, Sonnet I, tr. by Lorna de’ Lucchi


	4. Chapter 4

_October 17, 1839_

His mind remembered before his body did, and while his hands were still grasping at the emptiness next to him in search of what could not be there, he already regretted having woken up at all.

Lord Melbourne had not had a terrible hangover like this since he was much, much younger. He felt as though he had been drinking for several years on end with nothing and no one to interrupt him, and now he was paying for it. Coffee was no help, nor were his butler’s great-aunt’s family recipes. Alas, the trip to the palace could not be postponed any longer, and in two hours after waking, wishing he were back in his study on South Street with a cold compress on his brow, reliving all those sweet and so painful memories without hindrance, Lord Melbourne rode in the carriage, breathing in the chilly October air from the open window, preparing himself for the encounter with another man’s bride, who had been his wife in all but name only yesterday.

The Queen swept into the blue drawing room—on the wings of her love for the prince, Lord Melbourne thought bitterly—and stopped dead in her tracks when she saw him, and opened her mouth and choked, as if the words she needed to say would not come out, and squeezed her eyes shut before he had the chance to meet her gaze. And he remembered, making an effort to pull himself together, that an eternity ago, on October 16, they had parted without saying a word about the thing that occupied their thoughts, because King Leopold, the duchess, Baroness Lehzen kept interrupting them, storming her study each with their questions and demands. No wonder that the Queen was now lost for words, not wishing to hurt his feelings. A skilled politician, a seasoned courtier and a selfless lover, Lord Melbourne did not hesitate before coming to her rescue.

He dropped to one knee and took her hand, pressing his lips to the back of it, squeezing lightly the unusually cold nervous fingers. He had gone through the ritual hundreds, perhaps, thousands of times before, and he would more than once in the future, but this time William felt as if he was saying goodbye to Victoria.

Seemingly back to her senses, Her Majesty spoke hastily, apparently to stop him from starting the conversation they had failed to have on the previous day. He listened to her talk about Prince Albert’s allowance, the upcoming Privy Council meeting, the wedding ceremony, nodding and saying something in the appropriate places, his heart slowing its pace and his eyes desperately devouring her delicate profile every time she would turn her face away a little. His memory mocked him by painting other pictures in his head: he saw her hiding her smile in the palm of her hand as she examined his first clumsy watercolor drawing, he saw her groaning as she cleaned the dirt from under her fingernails, he saw them playing the pianoforte, shoulder to shoulder, hands fluttering, brushing each other, he saw himself catching the tender bead of her nipple with his mouth and her arching back as if she was stricken by lightning, her fingers tangled in his hair, her bitten lip as she tried to stop herself from moaning… He heard himself heave a loud sigh and blinked the fog away, willing his vision to regain focus, only to feel blood drain from his face as he realized that the Queen had been quiet for some time, fixing him with an unblinking stare, as though she could see everything his memory had conjured in his mind.

“Lord M. Did you hear me?” she broke the silence at last, her voice very calm. _You are imagining things_ , he thought, disappointed, _of course._ “Are you unwell?”

He _is_ unwell. He is ill with yearning for their impossible happiness, and there is no cure for his illness.

***

A mocking voice called him in the middle of the night, pulling him out of a feverish dream.

The gentleman with thistle-down hair sat on the settee, dressed in bizarre garments. Something foreign, thought Lord Melbourne, rubbing the back of his head, which felt heavier than lead, believing that nothing could surprise him now. A strange white cord that did not look like leather or yarn and had two round nubs on one end was hanging from the gentleman’s neck, its other end hiding in the pocket of blue trousers made of some unknown fabric. Lord Melbourne strained his ears a little: he thought he could hear something like music, and it seemed to be coming from those nubs.

_And you, you will be queen, though nothing will drive them away, we can beat them just for one day…_

“What is this?” he asked with a surprising curiosity of a much younger man, pointing at the white cord. The gentleman nimbly jumped up from the settee.

“In much wisdom is much grief, my lord,” he singsonged, winding the cord around his fingers and shoving it in his trouser pocket. “Now, where is it? Ah, yes.” He stooped to pick up the accursed silver button that had taken Melbourne’s happiness away. “Have you entertained yourself enough?”

Melbourne frowned and freed his rumpled form from the armchair’s twisted embrace to limp to the window and lean on the sill.

“I must say, sir, that the means you chose,” he nodded at the button the gentleman kept turning over in his hands, “proved to be most impractical. I lost your damned button and Her Majesty found it at the most inopportune moment…” he trailed off, noticing the smirk playing on the gentleman’s face. “Don’t you dare mock me, sir,” he said, enunciating every word. “I could have done, I could have told her so much more, I could—”

“Are you aware, my lord,” the gentleman with thistle-down hair, dressed in a coat the color of leaves in early summer, interrupted him, “how long you lived in that realm of your dreams? Almost thirty years. What more could you possibly want?”

 _Thirty_ _years_. Melbourne shook his head, shocked but stubborn.

“What _more_ could I possibly want?!” he exclaimed indignantly. “I shall never see her change at my side, it will be with another man that she will share joys and woes of parenthood and grow old…” he spoke and he spoke, his voice trembling and faltering, more and more inflamed, knowing too well that all those things were impossible in that unreal world anyway, but unable and unwilling to stop, as though the gentleman, who had teased him with an illusion of happiness, was to blame for the fact that his happiness was comprised of everything of which he was deprived.

“Now then,” laughed the gentleman, who had listened to this outpour with an expression of squeamish curiosity but not once accused him of being inconsistent. “What a questionable pleasure, watching the woman you love writhe in agony of childbirth, become ugly and fat, listening to her nagging and her hysterics, her screams and rows…”

Lord Melbourne had to smile when he heard the last part. Perhaps, the gentleman was not omniscient after all, for no one who ever witnessed the Queen’s infamous smashing of various ornaments could forget the spectacle.

“Now I can see you are not human,” he shook his head. “You do not know human beings at all, you would not understand. This is life, true, real, full human life.”

“Sir,” he added, having calmed his nerves a little, ashamed of his outburst now, “I am not blaming you. But I do not care for the way everything ended. Please, give me three more days... or even one day! I only want to... say goodbye.”

“Shall I remind you your own words? You said, ‘Once will be enough’. I warned you! And you have the gall to say that I do not know human nature. Human nature, my lord, is that when you give them a finger, they take the whole hand.”

Of course, thought Lord Melbourne. He should be thankful. And he was. This creature had given him so many years in the company of the woman he did not dare to call his own even in his dreams. Even if the robbed, deceived time had left no traces on his body, his mind was tired, and soon he would lose her for good, and then his mind would betray him—he knew this, as if he could see his future in a fortune-teller’s crystal ball. The mysterious gentleman was wrong: Lord Melbourne _would_ have to pay for his impossible, magical happiness.

The thoughts of the price and payment took him back to their first encounter, and he asked the question that still weighed on his mind.

“I did not lie to you. The bill has been paid already—not by you, but by your lover. Her Majesty has lost the exact number of years of her life,” the gentleman smirked, “that you have stolen from His Majesty Time.”

The ground shook and lurched beneath his feet, the world growing dark before his eyes for a moment.

“This was not our agreement!” he clutched at his chest, feeling the icy crust of dread creeping over his heart. “Are you mad? Do you believe I would have agreed to this, had I known? You will return those years to Her Majesty, sir, or else—”

“Or else what?” the gentleman giggled, not at all frightened but rather amused by the threat. “Are you going to challenge me to a duel?”

Melbourne’s fists clenched in impotent fury.

“Nothing comes from nothing, Lord Melbourne. Do your clever books,” the gentleman’s voice was tinged with contempt, “have nothing to say about it? You ingrate.”

“Do you suppose I should be grateful to you for taking thirty years of the Queen’s life?”

“My dear Lord Melbourne, it was not I but you who have taken those thirty years of her life,” the gentleman calmly crossed his legs.

“Please,” Melbourne said, struggling to keep his voice even. “Sir. She is… she has done nothing wrong, she is only a victim of my greed. Please, it will be only fair if you take those years from my own life!”

The gentleman snorted as if he had just heard the funniest joke.

“From your— I could not do that, my lord, even if I wanted. But you might take comfort in the knowledge that you had more time with her than the prince will. And, well, you know,” he added in a confidential whisper, “the Queen had too long a life ahead of her anyway. Perhaps you have done her a favor by reducing her days of loneliness and sorrow.”

Before Melbourne, who was about to strangle the bastard without a duel, took a step forward, the gentleman with thistle-down hair vanished into thin air. He sank back into his favorite chair. No, he did not take comfort in the knowledge that Prince Albert’s life would end in less than thirty years. Not only was Her Majesty to die too early, she would also know grief of widowhood. He might be a scoundrel but not enough of a scoundrel to gloat and celebrate his pitiful victory over his rival, when he knew how miserable she would be.

Yet he was helpless and powerless to change anything. Were he a man of honor, he would load his pistol to wipe out the disgrace of his monstrous mistake with blood… But were he a man of honor, there would be no need for it. He was nothing but a crushed, despicable blighter of women’s lives.

***

Their friendship—for they were friends above all else—helps them overcome recent awkwardness, building a bridge from yesterday through today, over the past that never was and the future that will never be, to the inevitable tomorrow.

The Lord Chamberlain retreats backwards with the list of suitable girls, her bridesmaids-to-be, six names in total.

“I do hope Albert will not demand a letter from a doctor certifying that each of them is _virgo_ _intacta_ , otherwise I cannot imagine what I shall do,” her majesty sighs, and Lord Melbourne raises an eyebrow, somewhat dumbfounded and very much amused by her sarcastic candor.

“If need be, ma’am,” his voice drops to a dramatic whisper, “I could find a suitable medical professional for this purpose.”

“Lord M!” she feigns a scandalized gasp.

At times, listening to the genuine ringing laughter of his young queen, he almost forgets what he has lost and what he has taken from her, he almost does not hate himself, he is almost happy again. At times, he catches her looking at him in a strange indecipherable way and he is burning with shame, and he hates himself even more, knowing how unworthy he is of her sympathy.

The anticipation of matrimony seems to have transformed her: she acts more mature, more grown-up, more tranquil, more sensitive. She does not torture him now by soliciting his opinion and advice on how to behave with this young man, her future husband, whom she still knows so little.

She does, however, asks him when it comes to more… unsightly aspects of married life, making it abundantly clear what kind of possible future causes her concern. Did Lord Melbourne know that her father, just like her uncle Leopold, had a mistress? He lied her only once in all the time they have known one another, and he will not lie to her ever again, even if he thinks truth to be overrated. Does he believe that Albert too will find himself a mistress? He recalls her German cousin’s earnest, honest face and tells her the truth: he believes the prince to be a man of true feeling, a decent man. _Unlike_ _himself_ _._ The prince will be a good husband to her. _Better than he could ever be._

Despite his expectations, she does not take off running to the gardens, where her betrothed fences furiously with the air, imagining God knows whom as his opponent. Instead, she nods, absentmindedly stroking the spine of the book on her lap. He squints to make out the title embossed on the dark-brown cover. His young giddy-headed queen is reading _The Life of Tymon of Athens._

She looks up, sensing his puzzled stare.

“An odd choice of afternoon reading, ma’am,” he explains, responding to the quizzical rise of her eyebrows. “A strange, dark play… unfinished too…”

Her gaze lingers at his face for a moment, as though searching for something. She springs up from the chair like a gust of wind.

“Oh, Lord M, but why,” she flings her arms up, having put the book on the table and heading for the window, “why must man always persist in his desire for continuity and completion? Is it not foolish? …But we digress. I was about to—”

He cannot move a finger, paralyzed by hope and by fear alike. What is this? _How?_ He stares at her back, which seems tense to him, trying to understand.

“Lord M?” the Queen asks. She has turned around, but the windows look to the west, and he cannot see her face in the halo of the setting autumn sun. “I only asked what you thought of February 10.”

Lord Melbourne clears his thoughts, baffled.

“Ma’am?”

“The date of the wedding, Lord M. February 10 of next year. What do you think?”

He thinks that February 10 of next year is too far away, that he cannot endure this torture so much longer, and he also thinks that even February 10 of 1940 would be too soon.

“I think that the weather will be horrid on the morning of February 10,” he says.

Her Majesty comes closer, and her expression is that of nothing but utter bewilderment.

“Which is not the reason to change the date, ma’am,” he chuckles, welcoming the well-deserved pain with open arms. _Do not let this cup pass from me._ “There is an old saying that rain on a wedding day is a harbinger of a happy, lasting marriage.”

***

 _February_ _10_ _,_ _1840_

William Lamb, 2nd Viscount Lamb, strides down the aisle of the Chapel Royal in St James’s Palace. The Sword of State is heavy in his hands but he grits his teeth, grateful for this reminder of the weight of his burden, his cross, his penance. He reaches the altar and turns around, stone-faced, and his eyes find the young bride.

Her Majesty is radiant in her white gown and orange blossoms in her hair, and she smiles a dazzling smile as she looks up at her prince, who will make her a still young widow. His heart thrashes in his chest, fighting to break free from the constraints of the ribcage.

“Albert. Wilt thou have this woman to be thy wedded wife, to live together after God's ordinance in the holy estate of matrimony?” booms the solemn voice of the Archbishop of Canterbury. “Wilt thou love her, comfort her, honor, and keep her in sickness and in health, so long as you both shall live?”

“I will,” the clockwork prince’s voice hitches a little. He does love her, Lord Melbourne thinks and suppresses a sigh, gripping the sword tighter.

“Victoria…”

The formula of the rite drowns in the deafening pounding of his heart. She will say, “I will”, and it is all over. He will go to Brocket to wander like a ghost among ghosts, reminiscing about the thirty years that never were. The Queen turns her head to face him, seeking his last blessing, and he smiles weakly through the pain, and he nods. Goodbye, ma’am. _Goodbye_ … He does not realize that his lips silently repeat the shape of her name one last time. _Victoria._

“Your Majesty?”

She will not answer. She will not answer, and a shadow flashes across her face. The expression in her eyes intent, she furrows her brows. Her hands trembling, she takes a step back from the altar.

“Victoria?”

Her pained gaze travels from Albert to him, transforming, now confused, now expectant, now hopeful. And he cannot bring himself to look away, even knowing that the eyes of everybody in the church are fixed on them. She opens her mouth, her lips moving without making a sound. He leans forward and hears the faint murmur of her voice.

“Lord M, you… You _remember_ , don’t you?”

The flower of hope, this enormous, impossible, unnatural thing, sprouts in his heart, its thorns ripping through his chest, its scarlet blossoms spreading inside, leaving him breathless.

***

“How is it possible, sir?” said a slender dark-skinned man in a black coat with one missing silver button. “Why does she remember it? Is their love so powerful?”

Invisible to anybody but his also invisible companion, the gentleman with thistle-down hair giggled, looking at him fondly.

“Oh, Stephen, you are so innocent, so pure of heart. It is because I made a similar offer to the Queen! Naturally, it cost her years of her lover’s life. Naturally, she protested as vehemently as he did, demanding I should take those years from her own. My dear Stephen, never fall in love—human beings become so foolish when they do…”

Lightning flashed in the young man’s eyes.

“Years of their life? You must have forgotten to mention this little detail to me! I parted the hill under which you were buried, I raised the rocks pressing on your body, I allowed magic to knit it back together, and you—you promised me not to ruin people any more, you promised you would help them this time—”

“Stephen, oh, Stephen, of course, you are as noble as you are handsome,” the gentleman waved his hand nonchalantly, “but it was so heartless of you to bring me back to life only to confine it to the short span of a human life…”

“But only if you wished to visit the human world! Magical powers coupled with immortality corrupted you,” the young man was exasperated. “And now you decided to prolong your life by taking so many years from these poor people!”

The gentleman’s face darkened.

***

 _October_ _17_ _,_ _1839_

The young queen had locked herself in her bedchamber, and now he could hear her sobs through the wall. He snickered and shrugged, turning to disappear but froze, sensing a presence he had not felt before. A middle-aged woman sat in the chair by the fireplace, her narrowed eyes staring at him. Her features and overall appearance seemed somehow vague, unsteady: if he blinked and looked away, he would not remember how she looked.

“Don’t you think it wicked and disreputable to take advantage of the feelings of a young girl and a desperate man? Come, sir, take a seat.”

He bared his teeth in a snarl and snapped his fingers. Nothing happened. Only some irresistible force dragged him to the fireplace and tossed into the chair opposite the strange woman.

“You will not refuse a lady’s request, will you?” she smiled playfully, but he could feel the cold metal in her voice. “I know how much you enjoy playing games. Why don’t you play with me this time?”

He watched the cards on the table between them jump out of the box, rise into the air and shuffle themselves, realizing that he was unable to utter a single word.

“I do not care much for your manners, so I thought we should sit in silence,” the lady nodded and tilted her head to the side, listening to something. “Yes, I know that it is indeed impossible to return the taken years back to their owners. It is, however, possible to give them to other people… It is most fortunate that you are as greedy as you are handsome!”

He wanted to bellow with rage. But the temptation was slowly taking over him. He could still win. Could he not?

“Emma, is that you?” a hoarse voice called from the bedchamber.

The woman pressed a finger to her lips and gave him a conspiratorial wink.

“Shall we?” she whispered.

***

 _February_ _10_ _,_ _1840_

“This means that the Queen will get to live all the years she was meant to live, and Lord Melbourne—”

“Will get to annoy the Tories for quite a long time,” the gentleman grumbled. “Ah, I cannot bear to think how they both will laugh at me—after they stop crying and apologizing to one another and realize how lucky they are.”

“What happens now, sir?” the young man asked, contemplating anxiously the scene by the altar. The groom dressed in a red uniform was looking around, confused and lost, his mustache quivering. Lord Melbourne, who had lowered the Sword of State without realizing it, looked equally dazed, but he was smiling, unable to take his eyes off the bride, who was laughing and crying at the same time. The whispers and murmurs of the guests were growing louder, but those two seemed oblivious to the world around them.

“You flatter me, my dear Stephen! No one can see the future,” the gentleman with thistle-down hair chuckled, pushing the smooth white cord peeking out of his watch pocket deeper into the folds of the bright green fabric. “I am certain of but one thing: this is a different story* altogether.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *and history, duh.


End file.
